Washing
by KarotsaMused
Summary: A little snapshot of Kenshin in the rain after a battle


A/N: Disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin isn't mine. I do, however, have a sword cerca WWII on display in my house...but that's not really related...  
  
Well, um, I just kinda wrote this as a bit of brain discharge that made me happy. It's raining like crazy right now, and mathematically, Rain + Raid (Hellsing soundtrack) = Rurouni. Sort of.  
  
Just to get things straight, this is from SANO'S point of view. (My other RK fic, "Welcome" was ALSO from Sano's point of view - why must people speculate?) I tell you this up front. If you ask me in a review who's talking, I'll be forced to shoot you with my Twinkie ray.  
  
Warnings: Um, none really. I guess there might be a -little- Sano/Kenshin if you look for it really hard, and even then you'll have to do some imagining. This could just as easily be Yahiko or Kaoru or Megumi, although maybe they wouldn't let Kenshin stay outside so long. Heh.  
  
Enjoy this little, pointless scene  
  
***  
  
He's out there, washing clothes in the rain. In the rain, of all things. He's bent over the basin, scrubbing at stains in the rain. He's naked to the waist, presumably throwing his own clothes into the wash for the hell of it. They'd get wet anyway.  
  
It's one of those cold rains despite the warmness of the day. Cold enough to sting against my hand when I reach out into the air. Cold enough to turn his back pink. He's not shivering, though. He'd never do something as vulnerable as shiver. Even just washing clothes in the rain.  
  
I'd been walking around the dojo when he caught me, shining against the gray tones of the world around him. Moreso than usual, at least. His red hair plastered to his skin, the whiteness of his body and his clothes, bent over like a statue washing clothes in the rain.  
  
And just as brilliant as his body, I see blood in the water.  
  
I go to him. He must be pretending not to see me, bent over the basin in the rain. He's scrubbing so hard his hair's coming loose, wrapping around his neck and his arms and his back. I'm soaking now, too, so my clothes are plastered to my skin, half-translucent and heavy. His scars are shining in the cold.  
  
Not just the prominent feature everyone whispers under their breath when they see him. The lines on his neck and chest and arms from wounds on the verge of being fully healed are so white against the redness of his beaten skin. Even icy raindrops can't bring color into them, even as the rest of him darkens against the cold. His breath hisses against the air, turning to steam and dissipating before the next is even drawn.  
  
My hair drips water into my eyes, and I shake my head to clear them. He has the same problem, but just lets the water run. It's on his chin, dripping from the tip of his nose, gathering spiderweb-fine over his eyelashes. The wind blows the water horizontal, and then he blinks to clear his eyes and continues on. Washing clothes in the rain.  
  
The basin is overflowing with watered-down suds and too much rainwater. I don't know how long he's been out here. The dirt below him has turned to mud and is creeping up the legs of his pants, staining the whiteness and caking around his knees. The ponytail is almost decimated now and his hair even trails over the ground, painting thin, soft curves in the mud. He's so pale, so warm he's steaming.  
  
He pulls the cloth out of the water and examines the dripping fabric, then wrings it out. The motion is more habit than anything else. The clothing is hung over a line, and he returns to the basin, plunging his arms in to the elbow, grabbing the next piece. His hands are so red, raw and stiff but never shaking. He bends down and tips the basin so the soap and blood runs over the ground. And then he turns to me.  
  
"Don't ask for an explanation," he says softly, reaching up and retying his hair with practiced ease.  
  
I smile a little. "You're going to catch your death. Come on," I say, putting my arms around him and ushering him inside. The mud runs off of him and soon we are both standing in a puddle of the rain we smuggled indoors. He holds out his hand to me and I stare at it for a second.  
  
"The jacket, Sano," he goads, tugging at my sleeve. I raise an eyebrow and shrug out of it, passing the dripping article to him. He smiles and turns the sleeves right-side out.  
  
He goes back out into the rain and hangs it on the line to dry. 


End file.
